When it arrives, the carrot cake looks just like hers: a small block of sponge flecked with orange, auburn as her hair, but this one has a full quarter-inch of soft white topping. Back then, when rationing tightened its grip and there was rarely enough sugar or butter for icing, her cake was usually served plain. With his knife he carefully removes the topping, cuts a small square of the sponge and places it into his mouth. He smiles blissfully. It is hers, he is sure of it.

When the waitress appears again, he beckons her over.

‘This cake is delicious,’ he says.

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ she replies, glancing at his plate. ‘But is the icing too sweet for your taste?’

‘Oh no, it’s just that . . .’ It is too difficult to explain. ‘No, it’s fine, lovely in fact.’ He struggles to find the words to ask what he is burning to know without appearing impolite or intrusive. Then, inspiration: ‘In fact, I’d love to have the recipe. Did you bake it yourself?’

She smiles. ‘No, sir. I do the scones. They’re more my line.’

‘Would it be possible to speak to the person who made this cake?’

Her eyebrows rise, ever so slightly. ‘I’m sure I could get you the recipe.’

‘I would very much like to congratulate them myself, in person,’ he says, trying to read the expression that creeps across her face. Who is this strange bloke, so interested in cake?

‘I’m afraid she’s not here at the moment, sir.’

‘Is she likely to return this afternoon?’

‘It’s possible.’ Her expression hardens, the little frown lines between her eyebrows deepening with suspicion. ‘We close at six, sir.’

He glances up at the clock. It is five-fifteen.

‘I will wait then, if you don’t mind?’

‘Not at all, sir. If she comes back I will tell her you are here. Can I mention a name?’

This takes him aback. If she hears his name, she might decide not to appear. ‘She won’t know me,’ he says defensively at first, then relents. ‘Mr Mackensie. Vic. Short for Vikram.’

‘Very well, sir,’ she says. ‘Would you like me to top up the pot, while you are waiting?’

‘Er . . . yes, thank you, miss. And another slice of carrot cake, please.’

He takes out his newspaper. When the waitress returns with hot water to refill his teapot, she notices that his hands are trembling.

PART ONE:

THE MAGIC EYE

1

July 1936

Pa had a friend who worked at the Orwell Hotel and said he could get the smaller lounge for a private function fee of five pounds, so long as they put ten pounds behind the bar for drinks.

‘Drinks? You’re going to let them drink alcohol on her sixteenth birthday?’ Ma shouted, believing her daughter safely out of range. ‘Fifteen pounds? Are you out of your mind?’

Kath, sitting at the top of the stairs, could hear every word and pictured the scene as clearly as though she were there: Pa hiding behind his newspaper, Ma pacing the small rug in front of the old cast-iron Esse fire, unlit of course, it being July and one of the hottest days of the year.